Chapter 7
June
There was something almost luxurious about getting up without an alarm. The early sunlight slipping through the curtains, the lazy warmth still clinging to my skin—it felt foreign, indulgent.
Unfortunately, it wasn’t the kind of lifestyle I ever got to enjoy. Discipline was everything in my line of work. Punctuality, consistency, control—all essential.
As the daughter of a surgeon, molded and trained to follow in his footsteps, my parents had spent years trying to convert me into a morning person.
But my body clock had always been stubborn.
No matter how many self-help tricks I tried, or how many “early-riser” blogs I read, the start of my days was a battle zone.
I was the kind of person who needed five alarms and still hit snooze like my life depended on it. By the time my brain caught up, adrenaline would take over, and I’d be sprinting around fearing about being late, with a toothbrush dangling from my mouth and a half-finished coffee on the counter.
But today… I felt awake not because I was done resting. I woke up because something hurt.
At first it was just a vague discomfort—the kind that usually wouldn’t stand a chance against my love for staying in bed. But this was different. Sticky skin. A pounding head. A dull ache crawling down my spine. A body that felt like it had been left out in the sun too long.
It took me a moment to realize why.
I wasn’t in bed.
I was no longer dreaming about Kai.
I was sprawled awkwardly across something warm and solid—someone, not something. My arm draped across a chest that wasn’t mine. My cheek pressed against soft fabric that smelled faintly of soap and dampness.
Dannie.
I blinked several times before my brain caught up. With an awkward grunt, I braced one palm against the hard surface and pushed myself up.
“Good morning,” Dannie murmured, his speech still thick from sleep.
“Morning. Did we end up crashing here all night?”
“It seems so.” His reply was far too calm about it, still drifting in that hazy space between dreaming and waking.
“What happened last night?”
The last clear memory I had was Beng leaving and me—against all common sense—trying to drag Dannie off the ground. We’d ended up talking, laughing, the kind of meaningless chatter that fills the spaces between exhaustion and tipsiness. But the rest of it was a blur.
“We must’ve nodded off while talking,” Dannie said, confirming what I already suspected.
“Yes, because you were so drunk last night,” I teased, though part of me meant it. “My body is killing me. I was never really a front sleeper… though apparently I’m flexible that way.”
Truthfully, if I hadn’t been sprawled on top of him, I probably wouldn’t be able to move my upper body at all.
There had been a few times in the past—too much wine at a wedding, too little water at a conference dinner—when I’d passed out face-down on my bed and woken up with my neck so stiff a colleague had to jab me with a steroid.
One of the few perks of being in the field: quick fixes for your bad decisions.
Dannie chuckled softly. “You were quite wasted yourself.”
“Was I?” My brows knitted together. He couldn’t be serious. I didn’t even like getting drunk. But then I remembered Beng’s endless generosity with the beer, the way he kept topping up my glass before I could protest. I sighed. “I guess that explains the hangover. I feel kinda… gross.”
Dragging myself upright, I glanced around—and immediately wished I hadn’t.
The living room seemed like a scene from a low-budget apocalypse film.
Plates, empty bottles, and crab shells everywhere.
The faint, sweet-sour scent of leftover seafood lingered in the air.
Tiny black dots—flies, ants, maybe both—were already helping themselves to what we didn’t finish.
“Eww. The state of this room,” I muttered, rushing into the kitchen to grab a bin. I started gathering up plates and scraps, grimacing. “I could really use a shower,” I announced over my shoulder.
No answer.
When I glanced back, Dannie hadn’t moved. He was still lying there, eyes half-closed, chest barely rising.
That… wasn’t like him.
I frowned, checking the clock on the wall.
10:10 a.m.
Late for him.
Dannie was the kind of person who bounced back from hangovers like they were minor inconveniences.
Coffee, shower, done.
Always moving. Always composed.
But now—he just lay there.
“Dannie?” I set the plates down slowly. No response. “Dannie!”
A low hum escaped his throat. “Hmm?”
Something inside me twisted. His words were missing their usual warmth—they were weak, strained.
I hurried to his side, crouching next to him. His face was drained of color, damp with sweat. His t-shirt clung to his chest, soaked through. And yet… his lips were cracked and dry.
“Oh my god.” I reached out and pressed the back of my hand against his forehead.
A jolt of body heat hit me instantly.
He was practically simmering.
The paracetamol hadn’t worked last night.
And this wasn’t just a hangover anymore.
It was disturbing to think that the fever and moisture—the same ones that woke me up earlier today—weren’t entirely mine.
Maybe a little was, but most of it came from Dannie. His body was so warm it felt like he was burning from the inside out. I must have made him worse by drifting off on top of him like that. My stomach twisted with guilt, realizing my irresponsible drinking last night might have made him sicker.
“Can you get up?” I tapped his shoulder, but he didn’t respond right away. His breathing was uneven, shallow. His face looked washed-out, his skin shining with a damp sheen. Panic clawed its way up my throat. “Answer me! Do you want me to call an ambulance?”
“I’m fine,” Dannie murmured at last, the sound thin and ragged. He tried to sit up, moving like his limbs were made of lead. I leaned forward, sliding my hands under his arm to help. His skin burned against my palm.
“You’re burning up,” I said, brushing the back of my hand against his cheek. “You should go to the ER.”
“I have a doctor,” he said with a teasing tilt of his mouth.
“I’m glad you can still joke,” I replied, though my words wavered. ”I don’t have anything here to diagnose you properly, and I can’t take that risk. Please, I’m begging you—let’s get you seen by a professional. Do you even have anyone here who can help?”
He shook his head weakly.
That was not the answer I wanted. I’d been meaning to figure out how to get medical help here—every country had its quirks—but I’d kept putting it off because I’d never been unwell.
And now, of course, it was happening when I least knew what to do.
“Fuck,” I muttered, scrabbling toward the dining table. “I’ll search online.” My cell was exactly where I’d left it last night, but when I pressed the button, the screen stayed black. Completely dead.
“Damn it!” I groaned, sprinting into my bedroom and shoving the device into its charging dock.
I waited for that expected flicker of light, but no response.
Seconds stretched into unbearable minutes.
I tapped the screen, the cable, even the wall plug, as if sheer willpower could make electricity flow faster.
“Dannie!” I shouted, rushing back into the living room. He had slumped down again, sprawled out across the floor. My heart lurched. “Where’s your mobile?”
I spotted it before he could answer—flat on the coffee table. I grabbed it, pressed the power button once, twice, then the side buttons—no reaction. No light, no noise. Just dead silence.
“What should I do?” I choked out, the question barely holding together under the weight of my fear. Dannie’s eyes stayed closed, his breathing fast and shallow.
From outside, faint chatter drifted in—the unmistakable voice of the woman next door.
Linda.
She usually came home around this hour after her weekday routine—school drop-off, Pilates, grocery run.
“Linda!” I yelled, hoping my shout reached her before I even opened the door.
I rushed outside, my heart hammering in my chest. I caught a glimpse of her back just as she shut the door. “Linda! Linda!”
Two seconds later, her head popped out from the half-open door, murmuring, “I’ll call you later”, before ending the call.
“Everything okay?” she asked, skipping any greeting.
“Dannie…” My breath came out in ragged bursts, as if I’d just sprinted a mile. “He’s really ill—he needs proper medical help. I don’t know what to do. We’re both foreigners, I don’t know how it works here.” The words tumbled out of me fast and messy, like something hot I couldn’t hold in my mouth.
“Oh, I see. Don’t panic,” Linda said in her calm, measured tone that somehow made me more anxious. Did she even understand how bad this was? “Let me check on him.”
“This way,” I said quickly, though she already knew where we lived.
She set her grocery bags on the little sideboard by her entrance before following me across the walkway. Her house had the same layout as ours, but hers felt lived-in—warm, cluttered, cozy—with books, framed photos, and a faint scent of citrus and cleaning spray.
“Do you have a thermometer?” I asked. “He has a fever.”
By the time we reached Dannie, he had somehow dragged himself onto the L-shaped sofa. He appeared half-awake, dazed, his lips dry and cracked. I slipped the thermometer under his arm. He barely flinched.
When it beeped, I glanced at the tiny red screen.
“Forty-point-five degrees Celsius…” I read it out loud.
“That’s very high,” Linda said quickly. “You need to get him checked. Actually—if money isn’t an issue—go straight to a private medical center. They’re pricey, but usually excellent.”
“Yeah, let’s do that.” I nodded, fighting to keep it together. “Please—can you help me get a taxi?”